One Got Away

by S. A. Lelchuk

  Coombs. Here. The two of us.

  We had finally spoken. And yet I knew as little about the man as ever. Who was he? Why was he here? What was he running from? He didn’t seem like a man on the run—but the more I saw of him, the less he seemed like any man I’d met. Maybe these herky-jerky movements, leaps from one point to the next like the jackrabbit leaping bushes, was his normal style. A man used to being chased, habitually cautious. I’d known hardcore military guys who took evasive action when driving to the grocery store.

  I had felt something in the steam room. Not menace, exactly. But not just excitement.

  Risk.

  That’s what it was. There was risk attached to him. Clinging like tendrils of steam.

  I took another sip of scotch and noticed that the red message light on my phone was blinking. I spent a minute playing around with the phone, trying to figure out how to access my messages. The voicemail was from Jess, asking me to call her as soon as I could.

  I dialed the bookstore. “Hey,” I said when she picked up. “What’s going on?”

  “A woman called about two hours ago,” she said. “She left the name Johannessen. It sounded urgent, whatever it was. She really wants you to call her.”

  I was confused. Could she have mistaken Martin’s voice? “A woman? You’re sure?”

  “Pretty sure… She left a number.”

  I took down the number she dictated, hung up, and dialed it. Sure enough, a female voice picked up on the second ring. A familiar voice.

  “Susan?”

  The voice sounded cautious. “Who is this?”

  “It’s Nikki. I got your message.”

  “Where are you?” she said immediately. “I need to see you.”

  “I can’t. Not now. I’m out of town.”

  “Why?” She sounded puzzled. “I thought you were looking into my brother’s accident. Where are you?”

  “Something else,” I corrected. “An unexpected development. Everything okay?”

  She was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke again, her voice was strained. “I’ve learned that Martin didn’t tell you everything about what’s going on between Coombs and my family.”

  I put my glass down on the nightstand. “What did he leave out?”

  “The most important parts.”

  “Which are?” I prodded.

  There was another pause. “It’s my brother—Ron.”

  “What did he do?”

  “Not over the phone,” Susan said. “I need to talk to you in person.”

  “Tonight? Sorry, but that’s impossible.”

  “I’ll come to you,” she said.

  “I can’t. Not tonight.” Coombs might vanish by morning. I had been lucky to find him once. Next time I might not be able to.

  “Then tomorrow,” she insisted. “Where are you?”

  “Monterey,” I told her, trying not to sound irritated by the sudden flurry of requests.

  “Where are you staying? I can meet you there.”

  I didn’t need a panicked Susan Johannessen doing a midnight Paul Revere to the Cypress Inn. “Cannery Row,” I told her after a moment’s thought. “Meet me there at noon tomorrow. On the pier.”

  She didn’t hesitate. “I’ll be there.” Then she added with a rush, “You need to be careful, Nikki. I’ve glimpsed this—this rot—this web.” As if reading my mind, she added, “Don’t think I’m being hyperbolic. You’ll see. Be careful. There are frightening things you don’t know.”

  “See you tomorrow.” I hung up. Through the picture windows the sky was darker, tainted with orange, the ocean more restless, stirred by the last bit of evening breeze. I tried to brush the phone call out of my mind. That could wait. I had to focus on what was right in front of me.

  Dinner.

  * * *

  “Here you are.”

  The waiter set a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket on my table. I had changed for dinner. Scuffed motorcycle boots and road-dirtied jeans would have made me stick out at the Cypress Grove as though walking around naked. Besides, I was going for a different look tonight. I wore an elegant black dress that fell above my knees, showing my long legs to good effect. A silver and jade necklace hung from my neck, and heels stretched my feet past the point of comfort. I had spent a half hour getting my makeup just right and my hair was down, a trace of perfume hanging like invisible flowers off my neck. The Monterey boutique had been a good choice. The Johannessens’ expense account was taking a beating, but they could handle it.

  I looked good.

  More than good. I looked wealthy.

  A sexy, successful, glamorous woman.

  I sipped from the champagne flute my waiter had filled and looked around the dining terrace. It was a beautiful evening, the ocean chill held at bay by propane warmers placed strategically between the tables. The sun was headed downward into the Pacific in a fiery splash, scarlet and orange ricocheting around the sky, filling the clouds with vibrant slashes of color. Torches burned quivering amber cones into the dusk and tea lights shimmered in glass jars on each table. The majority of the tables were filled by middle-aged couples, a larger group here and there. I was the only one who sat alone.

  Men shot looks my way. More attention than I usually got, but then usually I was walking around in a T-shirt and bomber jacket. Fashion had never been a big thing of mine.

  A man stood and walked toward me.

  The wrong man.

  The tech bro from the hot tub. Next stop, Phuket. Now he wore a too-tight black T-shirt and ripped selvage jeans that doubtless cost ten times what a normal pair should go for. From far away he could have been handsome, but as he approached, his face was too arrogant, lips curling in a smile, cheeks flushed with alcohol from the day-drinking. Not just day-drinking; behind him I could see the tableful of his pasty friends, leering at us over a fresh bottle of tequila.

  He grinned down at me. “I feel like we got off to a bad start.”

  I didn’t return his smile. “Agreed.”

  “Hey, I came over to apologize. I was rude.”

  “Apology accepted. Have a nice night.”

  He wasn’t done. “Don’t tell me you’re gonna drink that all by yourself?”

  I answered without meeting his eyes. “I didn’t really tell you anything.”

  Most guys heard a cold tone, saw an averted gaze, and took a hint. Basic, unmissable social cues that had probably been around for the last ten thousand years. Not this guy. He reacted as though I had pulled out a chair. He picked up an empty water glass from the table and reached for the champagne, giving me a kind of bargain-basement James Dean grin that had probably worked on all too many girls in his college days. “I’m thirsty. You mind? I’ll get the next bottle, don’t worry. In fact, your dinner is on me.”

  There was a place setting in front of me. Convenient. I gave his knuckles a hard rap with my butter knife. An audible thunk. Like ringing a very dull, solid chime.

  He yelped, and his hand shot back in retreat.

  “No one ever taught you to keep your hands to yourself?”

  “I was being friendly,” he said. “You were sitting here all alone.”

  “Ever think that’s because I want to be alone?”

  “What is with you? I said I was sorry.”

  “You’re missing the point.”

  “Whatever,” he sulked. “Have fun being by yourself all night. Pathetic.” His face was a couple of shades redder than it had been as he stalked off toward his buddies, shaking his head in disgust. As though, as magnanimous as he was, even he didn’t have the ability to help such a sad-sack basket case.

  I poured myself more champagne and watched the sun inching down toward the water. It really was a beautiful evening. Maybe Ethan and I could come back here someday. If the place ever ran off-season discounts. Say, about 80 or 90 percent off. For the hundredth time, I wondered about his request. Moving in together. I owned my apartment, but it was a one-bedroom. Would there be enough room for two? It ha
d been a long time since I had lived with anyone. I valued my space. And I didn’t want to move too fast and risk ruining what we had. That made sense.

  Right?

  Or was that me being my natural, walled-up, hermetic self?

  “I told you I’d find you.”

  A familiar voice. A rich baritone, polished with an immaculate British accent.

  My attention snapped back to the moment. I looked up, seeing the sharp eyes, the aquiline nose, the forelock of jet-black hair falling perfectly over a high forehead. He smiled, showing strong white teeth, and his eyes seemed to glow with understated confidence and good humor. Unlike the tech bro I had sent packing, this man looked like if I told him to leave he’d be about as bothered as a duck getting wet.

  “The prospector. From the steam room,” I said.

  He ignored the obvious. “I admired the grace with which you dispatched that poor brute,” he went on. “Admirable efficiency, estimable panache. Good show all around.”

  “You were eavesdropping?”

  His laugh was as warm as cognac, his eyes were deep blue, and pleasant crinkles spread around their corners as he smiled. A trustworthy, assertive face. Someone who would know what to do in any situation: which soupspoon to use at a state banquet, or how to rub flint and get sparks if caught in the Yukon.

  And movie-star handsome.

  “Eavesdropping? Hardly. More like by-standing.” His eyes twinkled. “But at least now I know better than to dare reach for the champagne.”

  He was tall, maybe six foot two, and well built. Broad shoulders and a flat stomach under a blue-and-white striped cotton shirt with a cutaway collar. A royal blue, knit tie crowned with a perfect, asymmetric four-in-hand knot. He wore gray slacks and a sharp, silver-buttoned navy blazer, the soft gold dial of a wristwatch peeking from under his left cuff. Framed by candlelight, the ocean behind him, he could have posed for a Most Eligible Bachelor photo shoot without moving a step.

  “Please don’t tell me you sold a software company.”

  “Ah, I see.” He nodded with a glance back at the tech bro table. “San Francisco’s finest computer scientists are out to play.”

  Why did charm always go so well with a British accent? Like cold gin and a touch of vermouth. A perfect fit, and the why didn’t really matter.

  “They can play all they want—just not with me.”

  “A reasonable stance.” He straightened. “Anyhow, I don’t wish to intrude, and for what it’s worth, I say that not only out of fear of your butter knife. Good manners, I’ve found, are an endangered species, although I like to imagine they haven’t gone the way of the dodo quite yet.” He gave me a last smile, rueful regret at what might have been, mingled with impeccable courtesy and something more molten underneath. As though refusing to consider, even within the privacy of his own mind, the very possibilities that he was walking away from. “Enjoy your evening, and keep the ruffians at bay.”

  He was good. Really good.

  He started to turn away.

  I couldn’t help but feel a sting as he turned to leave, as though the best part of my night had chipped away like a snapped ice floe. I couldn’t miss a step. Underneath the charm, I had felt him probing, guessing, studying.

  This man reminded me of someone.

  He reminded me of myself.

  He was setting a scene. Just like I was. And at this game he was maybe even better than me. He had the experience, the talent, and that unteachable mental ability to reach into someone’s mind and figure out what they wanted. I had seen his eyes moving fractionally, all his senses firing, a constant intake of information, like a hedge-funder trying to get in that 0.001 hairsplitter advantage on a trade. Noticing everything. Trying to find the one throwaway scrap that might make the crucial difference. The only way I could tell was because I knew what to look for.

  Tonight, being my usual state of competent wouldn’t be nearly enough.

  I had to be perfect.

  “I won’t get through this whole bottle on my own,” I admitted. “Pull up a chair and have a drink with me if you want.”

  He turned back but made no move to sit. He looked into my eyes. Not flirting anymore. Challenging, now, under the politeness. “Forget about me. Is that what you want?”

  He was better than good. He was great.

  I said, “I generally speak my mind.”

  As he lowered himself into a chair, his eyes never leaving mine, I was struck again by his presence, the gleaming obsidian courtliness that seemed to cover a deep, unspoken core of something fiery within. I wondered how many of these scenes he had gone through. More than I had? He was older by at least a decade. More than a decade of extra experience.

  “My name is Dr. Geoffrey Tyler Coombs,” he said as he sat. His nails were manicured, I noticed, the edges too neatly trimmed for a clipper. “And forgive me for saying so, but I can’t help but think that this is the beginning of something very exciting.”

  As it turned out, he was right.

  Exciting.

  Because that was how things really started.

  12

  “You’re a bit of a devil under the polish, aren’t you?” I teased.

  My new companion had just finished a ribald story involving a dueling piano bar in Singapore known for all the wrong kinds of entertainment.

  “I venture you’re a bit of a devil yourself,” he replied, refilling our glasses from the second bottle of champagne.

  “And how would you know such a thing?”

  “I am, after all, a psychologist. Although these days, I confess, I’m mostly on the lecture circuit. The private practice seems to trot along without me.” He grinned easily. “They say being wanted is the best feeling in life—but as far as I’m concerned, not being needed is twice as good.” He touched his glass to mine. “Enough about me. I fear I’ve been prattling on without giving any proper consideration to the origins of the beautiful and mysterious woman I’m sharing a table with.”

  I smiled. “You seem like a man who gives proper consideration to everything.”

  “My question stands.”

  I toyed with my glass. “I’m just a California girl trying to find all the right things.”

  “And what things would those be?”

  “Now you do sound like a psychologist,” I said.

  “And you dodged my question,” he returned.

  “Maybe I’m trying to find the right guy.”

  His eyes were skeptical. “You strike me as rather self-sufficient. A woman like you? Really? Just looking for a man?”

  “The right man. There’s a world of difference. Call me a romantic.”

  “You don’t believe that sometimes we have to settle for the best we can get?”

  “I never settle,” I said. “Not when it comes to anything important.”

  He blinked less often than average and his facial muscles had a way of barely moving when he listened. As though he was utterly focused on every word, hearing me more closely than anyone ever had. His concentration felt hypnotic.

  “And what’s important to you?” he asked.

  “Right now? I just want to get to know you better.”

  He took that in, watching me. Radiance from the tea light on the table lightly touched his face. His hands were perfectly still. He didn’t toy with his fork or crumple his napkin or scratch his nose—none of the mannerisms that accompanied most conversation.

  I finally broke the silence. “Did I say something wrong?”

  Coombs shook his head, eyes still on mine. “I feel like I’ve known you far longer than only a few minutes. I’m trying to decide why I feel such a connection.”

  I couldn’t tell whether he was being truthful. No idea—nothing. No verbal cues or physical tics to point me one way or the other. I wasn’t used to feeling that level of blank uncertainty. Like trying to climb a vertical rock wall that had been stripped smooth of all the natural crannies and ledges in which to put one’s hands and feet. I couldn’t remember the l
ast time I’d felt such uncertainty. Maybe never.

  It was exciting.

  I lightened my tone. “Two bottles of good champagne could be the answer.”

  He caught the shift. “Dodging, again.”

  “And maybe you say everything a little too perfectly,” I challenged. “Connection, knowing me… are you being honest? Or is this your standard opener?”

  For the first time he looked disappointed. I felt a flash of the same disappointment echo through me, as though I had let us both down with my flippancy.

  “Maybe I’m being more honest than you’re comfortable with,” he suggested.

  “Says the psychologist.”

  “Forget labels, for a moment,” he returned. “You Americans always want to label everything, put a perfect little sticker on all of us that shows the world exactly who we are. The whole human race walking around with a price tag and a bar code hanging off their necks, so anyone can scan away and take their full measure without bothering to work for it. But we are who we are. Whatever the name—whatever the profession or degree—whatever you want to call it. I am who I am. Aren’t you? And I daresay I’m being more honest with you than you even know.” He paused. “And yet I would have hoped you would understand that—of all people.”

  “Why me? Out of everyone?”

  He held my gaze, his hands clasped in front of him. “Take it as a compliment. I am forming an opinion of you, as you surely are of me. That’s what I do.” He leaned forward. “You want to know what I do? I look into people. That’s what I do for a living. That’s what I’m good at.”

  “Look into people?”

  “Until I understand what they want. Their fears, their desires, their foibles, the things that make them proud or ashamed or delighted. I help them learn things about themselves. Sometimes obvious things, and sometimes the deep-down, unadmitted stuff, the stones at the murky bottom that we know are there—whether we admit it or not. I try to learn the things that make people who they are.”